“See that ledge over there?” David asked in a hushed tone that somehow made me feel like I was wearing dirty panties, “that’s my c*cksucking shelf. I designed it myself.” He was referring to a 2ft. recess in the wall, which formed a built-in shelf above the head of his bed. “See, I lay on the bed while the guy straddles my chest. He rests his arms on the ledge to support his weight. This way he can really lean in and f*ck my face. And the angle’s perfect--no gag reflex. Unless, of course, he’s unusually endowed. Which in that case, who cares about a little gagging?”
David was a 40-ish Wall Street executive who had recently been downsized from the blue-chip insurance company he had helped succeed for years. “Early retirement,” he was fond of saying. A Fulbright scholar from an old-moneyed Connecticut family, David was also one of the oink-iest gay sex-pigs in Greenwich Village (quite possibly all of Manhattan). On this freezing cold Saturday night in December, he was giving me the grand tour of his bachelor pad while we got tipsy on thick, lusty Bordeaux. He lived at the gayest address in the universe (the corner of Gay and Christopher Streets) in two cozy, fire-lit rooms connected by a railroad hallway, and fronted by a fabulous sunken garden. You had to walk through the garden in order to reach the apartment, past fountains, climbing wisteria, multi-colored impatiens (in the warmer months) and two flags that flew proudly all year long: the French Tricolore and the Gay Pride Rainbow. I had been invited that exceptionally chilly night to enjoy the leg of lamb that was now slowly roasting in the oven, filling the tiny flat with its earthy perfume. David continued with his kiss and tell.
“Jon, there are only two great sexual pleasures in my life--sucking c*ck and having my nipples fondled. Have I ever shown you my ‘titshirts’?” He pulled out a couple of ratty old undershirts, each of which had two holes strategically hand-scissored around the nipple area. He said that these “titshirts” were what he always wore on dates, underneath his impeccably starched, Brooks Brothers French-cuffs. “This way, when the guy puts his hand up my blouse, he’ll get the drift right away. If he doesn’t figure it out, I’ll tell him to pretend my tits are radio knobs and if he works them hard enough, he might tune into Radio Free Europe…so START DIALING!” He said the only downside was that his aureoles had become unusually engorged, a fact that greatly alarmed his employer’s in-house physician. When reviewing a set of recent x-rays David had had as part of his yearly company-mandated physical, the doctor expressed grave concern over what appeared to be either concentric lung cancer or tissue not normally associated with the male gender. “No wonder my Wall Street career came to a grinding halt!”
I had come to dinner that night specifically to get better acquainted with my new friend David, and to enjoy a Budget Fabulous dinner in the famous beamed-ceiling, tapestry-walled apartment that everyone in our circle had dubbed “Candy Land” (after David’s alter ego girl-name “Candy”). I had not expected to get the TMI on his highly specific sexual proclivities. But after this evening and many others like it, I realized that David, being wellborn of patrician stock, could easily navigate the highest Park Avenue social strata with manners and grace. But what he really enjoyed was hot man-on-man action, and the good friends with whom he could share his juicy sexcapades and tawdry tales.
David was taken from this planet way before his time, by a fire in his apartment early Christmas morning of 2003. Though there will be no new tales of titshirts and f*llatio, those of us he left behind will have his old stories with which to shock and appall our friends for years to come. Now so do you. And stay tuned for more...
